In Days to Come
by Realmer06
Summary: Her first impression of this boy had, regrettably, been There's one in every class, but Neville Longbottom had quickly defied Minerva McGonagall's expectations.


This was written for Minerva Fest 2014 over on LiveJournal. As always, I had a blast!

My prompt: McGonagall taking special notice of Neville, trying to encourage him to be his own person instead of a carbon copy of his father.

In other words, a prompt including my two favorite HP characters? Yes, please! I enjoyed writing this a lot, and I hope you all enjoy reading it! Huge thanks to Anne for the beta – she is the other half of my brain, and I'd be lost without her!

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><p>The headline stared up at Minerva McGonagall from the tabletop, and watched her from all along the teachers' table.<p>

_Mass Breakout from Azkaban: Ministry Fears Black is "Rallying Point" for Old Death Eaters _

Dolohov, Rookwood, Mulciber, Travers, Lestrange, Lestrange, Lestrange . . .

She was horror-struck and numb with the shock of the news, taking in the words and all they meant slowly, so slowly, and the only thought that stuck in her head, for some unfathomable reason, was _I taught them._ It was true. Each name, each face, had once been a student in her classroom. Students she had failed. Students who had gotten away from her and become monsters, doing monstrous things.

She kept reading because she didn't know what else to do.

It was the tag after the name of each of the Lestranges that snapped her back into herself.

_Convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom._

Oh, God. Neville.

Her eyes flew from the page, searching out Neville Longbottom at the Gryffindor table. Did he know yet? Had he seen?

She found him at the far end of the hall, sitting backwards on the bench, laughing at something that Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff was saying to him. Minerva almost sagged in relief. He didn't know.

Then the reality of the situation came back to her at full force. He didn't know yet, but he would soon. From where she sat, she could see two, four, _seven_ students in the Hall with newspapers spread before them. And if seven students knew _now_, the whole school would know by dinner. Neville deserved to hear the news directly, not as the result of rumors and whispers in the corridor.

And so, before her class of fifth-year Gryffindors could arrive for their lesson, she changed the grade at the top of Neville's assignment to a clear "See me," written in red ink at the top. When the rest of the Transfiguration class filed out of the room at the end of the hour, Neville hung nervously back, and Minerva prepared herself for a difficult conversation.

She watched him closely as he approached her desk with tentative, halting steps. He looked nervous, but not distraught or upset, and when he spoke, it was only with the worry of a student with a bad grade. "Was it -" He swallowed. "Was it really that bad, Professor McGonagall? I - I thought I understood…"

She held out a hand for his assignment, which he passed over without another word. With a simple wave of her wand, the red "See me" was replaced with a clear blue "A."

"Solid work, Mr. Longbottom," she said with approval as the boy in front of her sagged visibly with relief. "There's still room for improvement, but this was very solid work."

"Thank you," he said, his lingering confusion making the statement almost a question.

"I didn't ask you to stay to talk about your assignment," she said, answering the question he hadn't quite asked. She watched as apprehension rushed back into his face, knowing that he was trying to figure out what he'd done _this_ time. Her heart went out to him, though she would never admit that. "Mr. Longbottom," she started, adjusting her spectacles. "Neville." _That_ got his attention, and he was instantly alert and wary. She took a deep breath. "Have you seen today's newspaper?"

His brow creased, a mixture of worry and confusion blooming on his face as he shook his head. "No," he said, and Minerva sighed. "Why? What's . . ." His voice trailed off again, unable or unwilling to finish the question.

"There was a break-out from Azkaban last night," she informed him as gently as she could, watching as he understood what she was trying to say before she had a chance to finish. "Ten Death Eaters escaped, including - the Lestranges." She pulled the paper from her desk and held it out to him. For a moment, he just stared at it, white-faced and still. Then he reached out and took _The Prophet_ from her and read the print in front of him, turning, if possible, even more white-faced and still as he did. She watched him as he read, watched the edges of the paper tremble slightly as he took it in.

She beheld the young man in front of her and found herself uncertain what to say to him next, not because of a loss of words, but because there were too _many_.

Her first impression of this boy had, regrettably, been _There's one in every class_, but Neville had quickly defied that expectation. Yes, he had proved himself to be clumsy, awkward, and a mediocre student at best, but it took only a few weeks of observation for Minerva to see that these traits were _not_ inherent parts of his character. The more she observed him in class and gathered reports of him from other teachers, the more certain she became that Neville was being held back from greater things not because of an inability to achieve them, but because of a poorly-paired wand, a lack of confidence, and his grandmother.

It was Minerva's practice to send home progress reports to the parents of her Gryffindors once each term, and the replies she got from Augusta Longbottom were always more full of Frank than Neville. It made Minerva furious. Because Neville Longbottom was _not_ his father. Augusta Longbottom said that with disapproval and shame, but Minerva McGonagall knew that Frank Longbottom's rash and sometimes reckless bravery wasn't always the answer, and Neville had a quiet sort of courage that his father had never achieved. She'd seen it countless times over this boy's years of schooling, in all the times he had sacrificed his own comfort or well-being to support or protect his friends, the ways that he kept trying in situations that opened him to ridicule and abuse from peers and supposed-superiors. The fact that Snape had been his boggart's form _still_ made her blood boil, and yet, the boy had never skipped a Potions class. When he'd been caught out of bed and contributed to Gryffindor's lost lead his first year, he'd never shut himself away until the anger and abuse subsided. Neville's perseverance and determination to push through the hard times in his life were his defining characteristics, the very essence of his bravery. There was a core of iron strength at Neville's center, even if he and most of the rest of the world weren't able to see it yet.

Never was she more convinced of this than when he stood in front of her, reading the paper that outed his family secret to world without breaking or cracking or falling apart. He read it, he folded it, and he handed it back to her with a quiet, "Thank you, Professor."

"Are you all right?" she asked him, and she watched closely as a thousand complicated emotions played out across his face. He hesitated for a long moment, trying, she thought, to come up with the correct response. Eventually, he nodded.

"Yes," he said, then, "I - I'm not ashamed of them." He sounded so defensive that Minerva was taken aback. It was such a strange thing for him to say, but then she thought of his grandmother, and had to bite back her rage. Maybe it _wasn't_ so strange after all.

"Of course not," she said softly, in response to those words.

"They - were heroes." This second statement was followed, half a second later, with a nod that seemed out of place, like it was trying to support what had already been said, to confirm that the words had been correct ones.

She nodded, trying to offer her confirmation as well. "They were." A pause, then, "Do you see them often?" Her voice was still soft and gentle and, in many ways, foreign to the young man in front of her.

"I - some," he said, sounding small and young. "At Christmas. And over the summer. I - Gran takes me. But -" He faltered, and when he spoke again, his words and tone made her heart ache. "They're just people in a room."

It was one of those rare and completely honest statements, the kind that take us by surprise when they come out. Neville's face lit up with horror as the words he'd spoken registered, and when he spoke again, it was hurried and apologetic and desperate to set things right.

"I mean," he said in a rush, "I didn't mean - they're my parents, and they, they were heroes. They were. I'm _proud_ of them," he said again, desperate to convince her that this is the truth.

She would not tear up in front of her student. She refused.

"Of course you are," she said. "And they would have been proud of you."

She startled him with those words. His eyes snapped to hers, and he searched her face in a way he would never have dared to do in different circumstances. She met his gaze levelly, for she meant what she had said, and she wanted him to see it.

"I - do you really think so?"

The words came out in a whisper, full of yearning and a different kind of desperation, and it killed her, how much he longed for her to be telling the truth. She couldn't even summon the anger she wanted to feel toward his grandmother, so heartbroken was she over the reality of the young man in front her, trying his hardest to win the pride of the adults in his life, even if it meant fighting to live up to an impossible ideal.

She stood then, and came out from behind her desk to stand in front of him. "Yes, Neville, I do," she said. "I taught your parents for seven years, and I knew them very well. I _know_ how proud they'd be of you."

Neville offered her a smile at that, hesitant and only half there, but a smile nonetheless. "Gran's always saying I should try to live up to them. To my dad, really."

Someday soon, Minerva really was going to have to have a few choice words with Augusta Longbottom.

To Neville, she said, "Frank Longbottom was a great man," keeping her voice steady and calm. "And he deserved a better story than he got. But so did you." For the third time that conversation, Neville's eyes snapped to hers, startled, and she knew that her next words would _matter_, so she chose them with great care and delivered them with all the weight and solemnity they deserved.

"The worst disservice you can do your father is trying to be exactly like him instead of growing into the great man that I _know_ Neville Longbottom can be."

Her words were met with silence, but Minerva couldn't be surprised. Who could expect a fifteen-year-old boy who had lived his whole life in the shadow of his parents' greatness to have the words to say to such a statement? She let him be silent and stunned and speechless for a moment, then she spoke again.

"The next few weeks will be difficult," she said. "People are going to talk. They are going to whisper and speculate, and a part of your life you would rather have kept private will become very, very public. It will be hard. But I want you to know that you can come to me, at any time, for any reason. My doors will always be open."

There was the hesitation, then the slow nod that she was coming to know very well. "I - thank you, Professor," he said, and though he looked like there was more he wanted to say, no more words came out.

He will find them eventually. Two years and five months later, she will approach him as he sits, slumped and exhausted, on a splintered bench in the decimated Great Hall, too tired to move or sleep, the bloodied sword of Gryffindor resting in his lap. Without a word, she will sit beside him, and he will know who is there without having to look up. He will say, "My Gran said she was proud of me. As proud of me as she ever was of my father," and Minerva will say nothing, because she will know his words are not yet finished. Eventually, he will speak again. "I think my Gran is a flawed woman, more broken by her son's . . . demise . . . than she will ever be willing to admit. But despite it all, I love her."

Minerva will speak then. She will say, "As you should," and Neville will reply with a sad smile.

"Do you still think my parents would be proud of me?" he will ask her.

"I have never doubted it."

"And you?" he will ask then, finally turning his head to look at her.

She will raised one eyebrow and ask, "Fishing for compliments, Mr. Longbottom?" He will reward her with the breath of a laugh before he hands her the words that will take her breath away, if only momentarily.

"Just looking for the opinion that matters most to me."

"Yes," she will say when she can speak again. "Of course I am proud of you, Neville. But then, I always have been."

He will smile at that, tired but amused, as if they are sharing a joke. "Always, huh?" he will ask, waiting for her to smile back, to laugh with him at the incompetent and embarrassing eleven-year-old that he was. But she will not smile back, and she will not laugh with him. She will only meet his eye and repeat herself.

"Yes. Always."

The smile will fall from his face, then, and he will look at her again the way he looked at her in her office two years and five months before - halting and stunned and disbelieving. "How?" he will ask her then, in a voice no louder than a whisper. "How could you have known?"

"Because," she will state, simply, with no need for embellishment. "I have been doing this for a long time, and I know when the purest sort of Gryffindor stands in front of me, even if the Gryffindor in question does not know it yet."

On that day, there will be no hesitation, no slow nod. He will only look at her with the full weight of how much her words mean to him written clearly on his face. He will say, "Thank you," and mean it perhaps more than any other words he has ever spoken, and the moment will be a memory that Minerva will cherish for the rest of her life.

That day will come. But on the day he learned his parents' torturers were free once more, Neville Longbottom left Professor McGonagall's office feeling awkward and uncertain, not knowing what he was supposed to say in the face of her unexpected kindness. Minerva watched him go, hoping he would come back, hoping he would take her words to heart. Until then, she would do as she had always done: watch and teach and protect and guide and hope she did it well enough to make a difference in the end.

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